


the reality of souls

by OldMagpie (MagpieMorality)



Series: skip to the good part [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Art Thief Yusuf, Author projecting about the freedom of giving in, Blindfolds, Brief mention of forced child labour, But they get better later on luckily, Cameos if you can spot them, Chair Sex, Clothed Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Gratuitous use of italics, Historical Inaccuracy, Intercrural Sex, It's about them vibes, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn With Plot, Robin Hood style art theft, The Inherent Eroticism Of Being Attracted To Your Enemy, This is Knight's Tale level of accuracy, Under-negotiated Kink, and his Upstanding Citizen Nemesis Nicolò
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieMorality/pseuds/OldMagpie
Summary: In vaguely 19th Century Mediterranean Europe a chase is taking place between the thief stealing art from rich folk with ease; and the man that pursues him.Nicolò is determined to one day catch up to his quarry...withoutending up so blissed out of his mind from their illicit encounters that the bastard can get away yet again. Unfortunately this particular enemy is a tough nut to crack, and Nicolò will just have to keep chasing.But is he really the hunter, here?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: skip to the good part [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050629
Comments: 73
Kudos: 245





	1. Venice

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be honest- this is just an excuse for period vibes enemies-to-lovers smut! A challenge to myself and a gift to my favourite wonderful online fam <3 Special shoutout to Polar for all the yelling because dude you outdid yourself every time I sent you more! 
> 
> The historical setting is purely for the aesthetic and the amount of flowery prose I enjoy using so don't look for specifics ;)
> 
> And just for everyone's peace of mind- this is a completed work! It will simply take a few days between each chapter for me to clean things up in editing to be posted. Hopefully fully posted by the end of the week!
> 
> SPEAKING OF AESTHETIC. The very same Polar from above made [this b e a u tiful edit for this fic that sets the tone and visuals perfectly](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/post/636164163301949440/finally-i-can-post-this-edit-that-i-made-for-the). I absolutely insist you bask in it before reading especially because I have no idea how to embed it welp.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò has tracked his enemy to Venice, ready to meet the thief in battle once again in the dark of the night during a masquerade ball...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for mentions of forced child labour, details in end notes.

The masks are a bit of a problem. It's a tradition, a beautiful one, but Nicolò is still grinding his teeth against the inconvenience of not being able to check each new face that enters the ballroom to find his quarry. Venice, shockingly, does not care. The host of this particular party had just scoffed and clapped him on the shoulder when Nicolò had expressed his concerns and loudly proclaimed that he had faith in Nicolò to protect his valuables; that he was undoubtedly the best out there with his reputation.

Nicolò had wanted to protest that that wasn't the point, and that he was still human and being unable to spot the enemy was _still going to be a problem_ but his employer had been whisked away by staff planning the party once again and he hadn't had the chance. It's a quiet blessing, that faith- in many ways he relies heavily on that very same reputation, and the work it brings him, and then there's the _other_ part...

Because under Nicolò's professional annoyance and serious expression, under his dour frown and stiff jaw; a thrill of challenge buzzes in his skin. His fingers itch with the anticipation of the fight he's been fighting since Valletta and all the way across the Mediterranean; through Palermo, Rome, Milan, and now over to Venice. He predicts (he shouldn't be predicting his defeat at all- should be planning for this to be the end where he finally catches the bastard) that next they will head for the rich stomping grounds of Switzerland, or perhaps Austria. Maybe though (and he has to his shame secretly planned for this too) they will wheel about and go back south. Bologna; maybe Rome again; Bari; perhaps even end up back in Malta where it all started.

But tonight Nicolò must focus on Venice. He has been hired for the duration of the party, to stop a criminal from stealing valuables that do not belong to him. And if only there weren't so many masks obscuring the features of the party-goers he might even manage it.

If only Nicolò had ever seen his enemy's eyes so that he might recognise them looking back at him from behind lush silk or extravagant taffeta.

  
  


He ends up lurking around the edge of the dance floor, wandering from side to side to keep an eye on the exits. All evidence had pointed to the fact that his quarry would enter through legitimate means rather than breaking in upstairs- he has been living in Venice for a while, Nicolò had told his employer. He will secure an invitation for his own pride.

(What Nicolò did not say was how he knew the man was in Venice already. He did not mention their brief meeting a week prior at night, high above the city on a thin roof overlooking the sprawl of buildings and twinkle of lamps below. He did not share how he recognised the steps behind him on the stone even before he recognised the hands pushing him forwards against the railing and bending him over, always facing away- never once allowed to look. He does, however, start trailing his eyes down to the grasping, gem-studded fingers of the dancers in the ballroom, wondering if he will recognise those at least.)

It seems futile, and is aggravating for it, so Nicolò grits his teeth and turns instead to wander the hallways that circle the ballroom, leading in twisting paths into other parts of the splendid house. He sees couples, giggling and pressed together, and the children of the house running around playing a game; and he sees a flustered looking man descending a private staircase alone casting glances behind and a young lady enthusiastically discussing something with a group of friends; and he sees-

Nicolò turns abruptly, hurrying to catch up with the young man before he can step off the stairs. "Wait," he says, frowning at the wide-eyed look the man gives him when he jolts to a stop. There is something familiar about him. Nicolò scans the young noble, wondering what had struck him and set off the alarm bells of instinct in his head, until the man steps off the final stair and they stand in front of each other, matched in height. They are wearing perfectly matching masks, but the young man has a different one clutched in his hands. They have the same light eyes, though the noble's are a stronger blue than his own changeable pale, and their hair is reminiscent enough. A hot feeling builds deep in Nicolò's stomach.

"Where did you get that?" he snaps, nodding at the mask in the young man's hands.

"It is mine," is the reply.

"And the one on your face?"

A starry-eyed look and a coy glance back up the stairs answers neatly for him. Before the young man can confirm that he was- and of _course_ he was- given Nicolò's mask to wear by another's hand, Nicolò is gone, launching up the staircase. His blood runs hot and pounds in his ears and he doesn't have time to deny to himself that it is excitement that has him feeling this way, far outweighing the anger he _should_ feel from being so laughed at. Mocked, even, by his greatest enemy.

The upper floor is just a corridor, leading to a suite of rooms. There aren't any particular valuables here; the gallery wing is secured by a contingent that won't leave their posts all night, and the private rooms of his employer are the same. But this seems to be a guest wing, or an entertaining wing of some kind.

Nicolò quiets his steps, prowling over the rich carpet and staying close to silent as he opens doors and checks inside one by one. Most are locked but at the end of the corridor, while he checks one a few down, there is a click as a handle twists and the door swings open an inch.

Mocked again. Nicolò fights the urge to curse and run; wishes he had backup and then simultaneously thanks God that he doesn't.

The door beckons him. He cannot resist its call.

  
  


The room is dark inside, entirely unlit. A balcony on the opposite side brings a breeze in through the open doors, sending the curtains dancing in and out. Nicolò slips in and presses his back to the door, closing it and locking it at his back with the key still stuck in the lock, scanning about for any signs of the enemy.

Of course there are none.

With a quiet sigh of frustration and resignation Nicolò steps forwards, hands on the rapier his employer had insisted on furnishing him with for the job. It won't be used- they are never really used, for anything more than decoration- but it makes him feel better. As though he is the hunter here and not the all-too-willing prey stumbling right into the jaws of such a sweet death.

He sidesteps around, trying to keep his back to the walls and use the moonlight to check shadows newly vanquished by the changing angles. Nothing stirs, but tension hangs in the air and he knows- he _knows-_ he is not alone.

"The mask was a nice touch," Nicolò murmurs, ears straining for sounds of a reply. "And whatever you did, I think he is ruined for any other touch forever." _As am I_ he thinks, and he would swear on his own life that somewhere nearby his enemy is smiling because he hears Nicolò's unspoken thoughts. "Will you not come out, if you are so keen to see me?"

"I can see you whenever I want," a voice says, right by his ear as he passes the heavy drapes next to the balcony door. Nicolò has a split second to react, trying to throw himself sideways to get free but he is too late. He has been caught since he ascended the stairs, in all truth. The hands imprisoning him now, burning around his waist and up to hold his jaw, are just the final click in the lock, the turn of the key in the door that with his own hands he has shut behind himself. "You are not hard to find."

"Nor you," Nicolò gasps, staying still for the moment. In close quarters he will not escape, he knows that (and would he even want to?) so he will wait for his chance later. They have met enough that he has, around the haze of the throes of a stunningly strong passion, been able to study his enemy somewhat. And this time, _this time_ , he thinks he has a plan of his own for his enemy tonight.

His enemy chuckles, a beard rasping against the side of his jaw and his throat, making a delightful sound against his mask. The enemy is not wearing one, it seems, because his nose and cheek are free of obstruction as they brush Nicolò's ear. "I see, you think you have caught me, do you Nicolò?"

Fuck. "How do you know my name?"

"I know everything about you, little mouse." The teasing insult makes him thrash on pure reactive instinct, but his enemy holds him tighter and tuts until he stops. "That cannot be a surprise to you, can it?"

"I am not a mouse," he spits.

There is a quiet consideration behind him. "No," the voice allows, "you are not. And one day, perhaps, you will catch me in truth instead of running where I will it and rolling over to show your belly for praise when you figure out my plans."

"Am I a dog or a mouse?" Nicolò bites out, head ringing with the truth of his enemy's words. He is delighted when they meet, when he solves the puzzle and ~~catches~~ is caught, given the prize at the end of the maze. He wishes he weren't, but he _is_. 

"To be decided," the enemy chuckles, dropping a kiss over his thumping pulse. The beard rasps again but it must be well maintained because all it raises on his skin are goosebumps from the tickle. Nicolò suddenly wishes it would scratch and burn, staying with him as evidence for the days to come. That is the one bittersweet disappointment he feels in these moments- they are the conclusion of a game well played but also the start of a new one, heralding potential weeks before he next feels these hands over, under, inside his clothes. "But first we should reward you, hm?"

Dear God if his knees don't quake. "And then go and steal whatever it is you came for, while I am laid low?" Nicolò counters, too breathless to make it harsh. "What is it tonight, a statuette? More priceless portraits?"

They step forwards when the man wills it, enough to be out of the shadows. Nicolò feels the moonlight fall on him and tries to turn to catch a glimpse of his enemy but is held tightly in place, facing some darkened corner of the room but not seeing it. All his senses are focused on the man behind him.

"And what," comes the rich rumble of a reply, "makes you think that I have not already claimed my prize here?"

Nicolò makes a wordless sound in his throat, angry at himself for not considering the possibility that the job had been done before he'd been caught. "What did you take then?" he grinds out. "You may as well tell me if it is already gone. We will only find out in the morning."

"Much sooner than that. I plan to take him imminently."

 _What_. "What?" Nicolò croaks. "You cannot mean-"

"I can." The enemy sounds stern enough to halt Nicolò's protests, listening for an explanation instead. A sigh rushes over his neck. "There are no treasures in this city to compare to you." _What_. "The sight of you is more alluring than the hoards of art and expensive trinkets hidden away behind closed doors." _What is happening_. "The sound of you calls to me more than any striking portrait ever could." _What is this. Can this be?_ "The feel of you in my hands, your taste, your-" the enemy's hands pull tighter, although it already feels as though they are iron brands pressing into Nicolò's skin and it should not be possible for a firmer grasp to exist that does not hurt but there is no pain at all only pure possessive pleasure. "Nicolò, you are the one thing I wish most to steal. But always I must give you back, and wait for your body to fall into my hands again. One day, soon, you will sign the rest over to me as well and it will be my turn to hoard, to protect and guard you jealously from thieves."

"I don't understa-"

"Yes, you do," the enemy snarls, scraping his teeth over the hinge of his jaw in a fit of furious passion that makes Nicolò bite back a whimper. It is still audible, because the man is pressed so close, the pad of his little finger laid gently on Nicolò's throat. He chuckles. "Yes you do. Even if you don't in your head, consciously- the rest of you understands. I am awaiting you, and you are awaiting your own surrender. It will happen eventually, Nicolò, I trust that. I am patient."

Nicolò snorts, shifting to test the man's hold. "Are you? Patience is not a word I would apply."

The arm around his middle loosens, letting go of the arm it was keeping trapped to Nicolò's hip. It draws back and his wide hand- Nicolò glances down but he is held wrong to have an angle to see it tonight- spreads over his belly instead, hot even through the layers Nicolò wears. "Perhaps not. I am a man who appreciates lovely things, and I have to have what I set my sights on. But I am patient when it comes to what matters most."

"Am I… that?" Nicolò checks. He feels the man's silence weightier than a response. He thinks quietly for a while, and the man lets him, mouthing over his neck with, hah, _patience_. "But I do not even know your name. I have never seen you."

"You see me," his enemy croaks and it sounds like a plea. "Nicolò you see me more clearly than any other. You know it's true- you know me."

"I know you steal… But those things are not sold, or kept," Nicolò whispers, trying to voice the rising theories that have kept him company these past months, clues he had previously thought were only useful in helping him decipher his enemy's next move. Now all of a sudden in this rich man's room in Venice they mean much more. "They return to places they should be. You target only those who have stolen first. A veritable champion of artists." 

"Continue," the enemy says, rewarding him by moving his hand from his belly to the ties on his trousers.

"You must then do it because you believe it is right. Because the means are justified by the outcome. You-" his breath hitches when the laces are pulled, scraping over his crotch deliciously lightly. All thoughts of planning to outwit his enemy are lost, in a single touch. Why would he want to? "You are as moral a thief as I have ever heard of. You are charming too, and you must be kind- I also heard about the children."

The hand stills and the mouth stills and they both still, frozen for a hung moment in time. Nicolò wonders if he has done wrong, or said something he should not have. Perhaps his enemy does not appreciate such a memory during their irregularly scheduled tryst. "Sorry, I-"

"No, you-” the man stops and sighs. "I did not know you had heard about that."

"I could hardly believe my ears," Nicolò admits. "An art thief, stealing children? It took me days to verify it was you, but even until now I was not sure. I spoke to the parents."

"Were they well?"

"What?"

"The children, when you spoke with their parents. Were they well."

"Yes, for the most part. The oldest was recovering slowest. Her hands might not stay still again but she was nonetheless happy to be home."

"Only monsters work children like that for their own gain," the enemy growls. Out of nowhere the urge to turn and hug him hits Nicolò, making him twitch. The enemy gets the wrong impression, evidently, and clutches him suddenly close again to prevent his escape. "I smashed every piece of the cursed pottery they were kept there to make."

Nicolò swallows. "I know. An art thief who destroys art. It did not make sense- you did not make sense. But- I think I am coming to understand now.”

"So who am I?"

"A good man." It comes out as soft as a prayer and his enemy slumps into him. "I wish-"

"Nicolò I must kiss you."

"Yes, please."

"But you cannot look, and you cannot touch. No, don't make that sound, you will one day."

"This is cruelty."

"Ah but I am a good man, you said so yourself. So this too must be a gift." Nicolò huffs in frustration. "I will blindfold you and tie you, and then I will have you at last where I can see you. Though I will miss your eyes. I have long desired to see them up close."

"One day I will have you just the same," Nicolò threatens him, smiling when the enemy laughs. Good, he should laugh more. The darkness in his voice before had felt so wrong.

"When you catch me, and when you are mine, then you may have me."

"Are those the terms?"

"Those are the terms," the enemy agrees. "To the victor the spoils, and I will be such a prize, that I promise you. But your victory is not tonight, Nicolò. Close your eyes."

There is a fair amount of trust offered delicately out when the enemy lets go of Nicolò to step back and rip a piece of fabric to cover his eyes, knocking his mask away elsewhere in the room. Nicolò, contrary to his earlier plans, does not run. He keeps his eyes closed and shivers when the enemy croons his praises, slipping the fabric on and tying it tightly. He is led to a chair, no- a chaise, long enough to be stretched out on. The enemy does exactly that, pulling his clothes away, not entirely off but baring him with a reverent, shaking moan before he uses Nicolò's shirt and doublet to trap his hands at the small of his back. Then he whispers poetry over Nicolò's skin, igniting fire in his touches, and when he settles over Nicolò and moves against him he finally presses their mouths together.

At first it is just a press, a brush of lips over lips, but then the hunger drives deep and Nicolò finds himself doing his best to draw his enemy right into his soul, battling him with shared air and low groans and teeth. The enemy pulls back to Nicolò's outraged shout, laughing before he returns. And when he returns there is equally bare skin against his own, a cock laid hot and heavy side by side with his, and they move like ships in a storm, tossed hard and fast by the waves against each other again and again. The enemy tries to pull Nicolò's leg up but the trousers stop him and in his frustation his moans turn to filthy promises of future pleasure, when they will have nothing between them. He will bring oil then, not just for what they have done so far but something more, something that makes Nicolò writhe and hiss to hear vowed to him. Something his enemy promises they will share in equal measure, once Nicolò is at last in his grasp for good.

Nicolò can't even speak, let alone try to reply to what the man is saying. He still doesn't know his enemy's name, but he does know far more than at the start of the night- how he feels against him, the hair on his chest, the taste of his mouth, the tickle of his beard. The rest he knew before; the heft of his cock, the sound of his voice, the heat of his breath on Nicolò's skin, but it is no less special here and now on top of him than it was on the rooftop last week, pressed against him from behind.

"Unravel for my eyes, Nicolò."

He does.

  
  


When he comes back down to earth he is abandoned, naked and dirtied on the chaise while the masquerade is still ongoing below. Nicolò struggles his doublet back on to free his hands and removes the blindfold. He goes to use it to wipe himself up but stops, folding it carefully into a pocket instead to keep. He keeps the stains as well, almost certain that his enemy will still be watching from somewhere and will know, and enjoying the filthy thrill it sends down his spine. He looks at himself, where the man had touched him, and allows himself a moment to brush his fingers in the wake of that searing heat before dressing and leaving the room behind.

They will meet again soon enough, for now he has a job to attend to and be paid for. And perhaps a name to hunt down, before they next meet.

The game continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of forced child labour: It is briefly discussed that someone unnamed had been forcing children to make fake pieces of pottery to sell, but that they are unharmed and safely rescued apart from a tremor in one girl's hands.


	2. At Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up the trail after Venice, Nicolò gets the distinct impression that he is being toyed with. Where is the thief hiding now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun tryst for you all. I hope you've all gone to look at [this fantastic edit](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/post/636164163301949440/finally-i-can-post-this-edit-that-i-made-for-the) to get the vibes from chapter 1 as well, because it's more than worth it.
> 
> Enjoy!

After Venice is a period of quiet that Nicolò can't say he much enjoys. He wants what his enemy talked of; what he promised and professed in the dark of the upstairs room during the masquerade. Nicolò wants it so badly he takes on an extra week of work for his Venetian employer just to remain close to the place where the words had passed between them for a little longer.

But all things pass, and Venice passes as well and soon all the remains is the drive of desire, pushing him to his feet so that he may chase after his enemy.

Dog, or mouse? He often wonders. Nicolò _wants_ to be the dog- able to hunt and defeat the damned cat he races after- but more and more he wonders if he isn't the mouse after all; lured by a clever cheese trap set by the cat itself. Or perhaps the cheese in the trap is his thief who is also the cat... The metaphors and allegories are all getting muddled up in his head. Nicolò has not ever had the mind for poetry and literature, not the way his enemy does. He will remain a dog then, and doggedly dog the footsteps of the man he wants to catch.

From Venice he goes to Vienna, missing his thief by a matter of hours and tearing off on a merry chase down, across the seas back into Italy and then through Sicily again. Perhaps it will be Valletta where they come together again after all, Nicolò starts to think, except that somehow he ends up travelling again, off in the opposite direction when he overhears a woman in a seedy bar talking about an unlawful sale of some important artwork by some important artist (Nicolò never really got into art history despite working in the business of protecting it), diverting and crossing over to Marseille. They zig-zag, or Nicolò does, following lead after lead and seeing no hint of his quarry, feeling no brush of those hands where he wants them. It takes him a month to figure out- as he stands on the deck of yet another damned ship- that he is being directed like a puppet on strings.

His enemy has never been in any of these places.

Which means Nicolò is undoubtedly being _watched_.

So Nicolò turns to look behind. Literally, on board the ship he whirls around, eyeing the crew with suspicion, wondering if any one of them is his enemy and he simply does not know it. He studies their hands, but they are all sturdy hands like his enemy's. He looks at their faces but they all bear beards and he rarely hears them speak in soft enough murmurs to compare to his enemy's voice as he has heard it.

The whole chase seems overwhelmingly futile at that conclusion, but if the man wishes him to run from land to land at his whims? Then perhaps Nicolò's victory will be found in obeying him. Perhaps that was what he had meant all along? 

And then his enemy comes to him.

  
  


The merchant ship is not a fast one but they have made decent time from Sicily around to Bari. The next stop for the crew after this will be Venice, which had made him pause and consider... but no; Nicolò will disembark when they dock in Bari in a few hours time, to take to the land and await his next guiding clue. Early dawn is breaking and Nicolò is barely clinging to consciousness, having paced the length of the ship more than once in the darkness, trying to wrestle his mind into subjugation. His frustration and the itching under his skin will not settle so wearing himself out is all he can do most nights. 

Eventually- exhausted and looking forward to imminently again sleeping in a bed that does not rock- he collapses back into his tiny rented cabin bunk, sprawling out in the darkness and closing his eyes.

The thing that wakes him is the kiss. Lips brushing his; gentle but confident. Nicolò flails awake but his hands are caught and gathered together in a firm one-handed grip and his head is pushed down to the straw mattress by a palm over his eyes. He tries to gasp to shout but the voice of his interminable, dastardly enemy puts a quick stop to that.

"You have been growing more clever, Nicolò," the man praises, hushing him while he puts up a token struggle, more to express his displeasure at the manner of being accosted- and at the indignity he has been forced through these past weeks- than to get out of his enemy's hold. "Very impressive. I enjoyed the look on your face when you figured it out, how pleased I was to be nearby to see it. But you haven't quite solved the puzzle yet, have you?"

"So you _were_ on the boat," Nicolò grumbles, finally relaxing.

"I think you'll find I am still on the boat. Though really," he chides with a click of his tongue, "she is a ship, Nicolò, have some respect for the vessel that carries you."

"You are a thief, not a sailor. How did you end up here?"

"I am many things but above all I am your shadow, now. Or perhaps you are mine."

"I want to see your face."

The creak of timbers and the soft splash of waves take over the sounds of the cabin when they fall quiet. Nicolò feels the consideration in his enemy's fingers over his face. He knows the man is thinking about it, but he also knows that his request is not one that even _he_ truly wants granted, not yet.

He wants to earn this, as the man had promised.

"Are you any closer to my name?" his enemy asks, choosing not to answer. Nicolò licks his lips and shrugs awkwardly from his trapped, flat position, unsurprised that the man knows of his personal quest.

In any case he does know a word, a moniker of sorts. Not a name exactly; but on one of the crossings a friendly and frequently drunk French traveller had spoken of a rumour in the vast lands south- a myth or legend of a man called al-Tayyib who returned lost things to their homes. He had winked at Nicolò and offered his flask and proclaimed that if there was such a man alive today he would be a great one, and probably frown upon the traveller's own work. Nicolò had not asked but had pursed his lips meaningfully and declined the drink. The drunk Frenchman had laughed while Nicolò lost himself in thought then, and subsided into quiet once more.

It is worth a try. "You might be called al-Tayyib," he whispers. "It comes from a story-"

"I know the story, Nicolò."

"Am I right?"

"Well you did your best to say it correctly, but your pretty mouth is not made for the language. Your tongue is better off carrying other sounds to my ears."

"But am I right?" Nicolò insists. The enemy, the man- his shadow and the sun that casts  _ him _ as its shadow- hesitates and then shifts, rolling them over and climbing properly into the tiny bunk, sealing them together like two adjacent pages, Nicolò's back to his front so all Nicolò would see is the wooden wall of the b- the ship, if his enemy did not keep his hand firmly over his eyes.

"For now, you can be right," the man- al-Tayyib says. "I am happy enough to wear the name, rather than any other you might have found to call me."

"I called you a bastard son of a whore before, you do not prefer that?" Nicolò teases, hardly able to believe they are here, having such a mundane conversation, sharing the bunk calmly like lovers might. "Or perhaps you prefer cursed cat, which I find suits you very well."

Laughter curls in his ear. Nicolò tilts his head and arches to encourage more. A hum is his answer, and then blessedly al-Tayyib's bearded smile is back where it always belongs at his throat, nosing into his shoulder and neck and jaw and nesting there. "Cursed cat is not so far from what I am to you, I suppose. But still, you can do better."

The faint note of scolding in the words sets Nicolò's spine dead straight and he feels the rise of challenge in his very bones. He will do better. He must. To disappoint this man would tear at his very soul.  _ Oh God above he is so lost already… _ "Tempter. Not a demon but still an agent of lust and desire, my very own," he offers up. "What does it mean, al-Tayyib? Is it the word for rogue?"

"Mm, no. Nor thief, either, before you ask."

"Perhaps it is  _ tease _ , then. Giver of false promises."

"What are you talking about now?"

"Have I not caught you?"

Al-Tayyib laughs, muffling the volume in the back of Nicolò's head. His hands pull tight at Nicolò's wrists and head, and when he turns their bodies slightly it feels as though he is pinning Nicolò down onto the mattress, although he is physically barely covering Nicolò much at all. A response and a warning all in one. "Have you?" 

"I found a name! And I figured out your game-"

He is tutted quiet. "Still such pride, Nicolò. Still so far to go. Come, I will reward you for your progress, but you have not won yet. Now," the man adds, voice deepening to a level that purrs through Nicolò like pure arousal, "I believe you are starting to realise that victory is quite different to _winning_ , that these two games are not the same, and that only when you come crawling to me with pleas on your lips and no denial in your heart will your victory will be given to us both."

"You want me to crawl?" Nicolò scowls. "That does not seem like victory."

"It can be, _oh_ Nicolò how it can be... But more than anything I want you to understand what you want. And _why_ you would crawl willingly. One day you will, but until then I will dance you throughout the world at my whim and you will follow and not know why you follow so eagerly."

"Just tell me!"

"Ah Nicolò, it is not so simple. But let me give you a glimpse, while I have you here. You did do well after all-"

"I have earned it," Nicolò agrees, breathless with heat again, the animosity forgotten in favour of anticipation. Al-Tayyib pauses behind him and then says,

"Perhaps you are not so far from understanding as I had thought," in a curious, pleased voice, and then it begins.

His face is pressed firmly to the bed, his eyes squeezing closed before al-Tayyib can ask. His body goes where the man desires it, coaxed flat onto his belly with his hands up under the thin pillow. He bites his lip as al-Tayyib half strips him, and then crooks a knee up to the side at the sweep of a hand once free of his lower garments. Al-Tayyib lets his fingers linger for far too long there, playing with the soft, delicate skin behind the knee until Nicolò shivers and muffles a whine into the mattress. "Soon enough I will have you where you can be loud," al-Tayyib promises. "And I will be loud as well. Hurry for me, won't you Nicolò? I am patient, but I cannot wait forever. I need you too much and too insistently."

Nicolo's groan matches the way he leans his whole body back, wordlessly begging. It has been too long, and he remembers the press of the stone rooftop railing against his front in Venice, the sharp pleasure of being rutted against it; remembers the way his wrists had ached under him on the chaise so soon after, while al-Tayyib had taken his pleasure from moving them hip to hip; remembers even further back to their prior meetings, a ballroom and an alley and a house or two... and their first.

Nicolò keens. Al-Tayyib proves merciful enough to touch him in apology, running a soothing hand down his flank and then up under his shirt to curl around his shoulder from underneath, little finger rubbing over his collarbone. "Let us practice," al-Tayyib murmurs. "Beg me, Nicolò."

" _ Please- _ " he gasps out instantly without a hint of shame or hesitation. It has been months after all, why would he feel bad for encouraging his pleasure to be given faster? "Please, have me, have me I want to feel you-"

"You are _so close_ ," al-Tayyib groans in awe, hearing something he likes in Nicolò's pent up frustration. Then his thief finally rolls over on top of him and nudges Nicolò's knee a little further out so he can grind his still-clothed hips in a way that makes Nicolò see stars and push back desperately. "If only you could see how close you are to being mine, Nicolò. If only you would just give in and let yourself see-"

His hands move and Nicolò's do not, staying carefully clasped together for his forehead to rest on as al-Tayyib pulls him to bend over the side of the bed, knees on the floor and chest to the mattress. The low height of the bunk forces him to arch his spine downwards a little and his cock hangs, tip brushing the sheets lightly and eliciting constant shivers. When al-Tayyib presses flush to him again his legs and chest are still covered by clothing but the portion between is not, and he presses up hot and hungry, cock rubbing up between Nicolò's legs. They groan together, muffling the sounds in case of passing ears, and al-Tayyib rocks in counterpoint to the ship, grinding in slow movements of his hips for a while before it becomes too much. He shifts his knees, to the outside of Nicolò's thighs, and pushes Nicolò's legs tight together. Then, with his cock cocooned in between them, he grasps greedily at Nicolò's hips and takes him at last how they both wanted him to; thrusting fast and smooth into the tight warmth Nicolò provides. In short minutes Nicolò is biting the thin covering of the straw mattress to silence his continuous moans, and al-Tayyib has curled over to pant against the centre of his back, mouthing at his spine through his shirt and shifting a hand to wrap around Nicolò. He barely moves it, making more of a tunnel for Nicolò to move through as each of al-Tayyib's thrusts sway him forwards than anything else, but then it changes. His thief begins to stroke firmly while he moves, short snaps of his hips that get progressively faster and faster. His cock nudges intently at the back of Nicolò's balls on every stroke and his other hand is just as inexorable where it clutches Nicolò tight. 

The end comes like a storm upon them both, crashing into al-Tayyib first. He goes tense and then presses tight like a wax seal to Nicolò's back, biting down on his shoulder. Nicolò feels the wet spread of his release, and al-Tayyib's generous hand suddenly moves quickly, stripping Nicolò's cock until he follows helplessly with a soft whine into his own cupped hands. 

He shudders, curling up over the side of the bunk, and al-Tayyib follows, curling over  _ him _ . They pant together before al-Tayyib pulls them up, pushing and prodding until Nicolò is back on his side in the bunk itself, facing the wall again. This time his eyes are closed from satisfaction and Nicolò is too sated to speak. Al-Tayyib is better than a blanket behind him, hotter than an open fire and ten times as soothing.

Nicolò falls asleep to the tender sensation of al-Tayyib brushing a finger up and down between his eyes, a repetitive motion that inspires more comfort than it should, and his arm- solid and heavy and protective- around his waist.

  
  


The shouts of the dockhands and crew rouse him from sleep a few hours later. He is cold, but covered with a thin blanket he doesn't remember grabbing. Al-Tayyib is nowhere to be seen; not in the cabin nor on deck when Nicolò hastily dresses- leaving the mess once again as a meagre memento of the night- and surfaces, looking desperately for any sign of the thief. He sighs, fingers tapping the canvas line of his bag, thinking to himself before he disembarks.

Perhaps it is time he admits that all he wants is to be within those arms for the rest of his days. The chase has been more than nice, but al-Tayyib had known long ago that it was a simple stand-in for what could be. A hint of a potential future awaiting them. All Nicolò need do is confess that to himself and give up the game and so, if al-Tayyib is to be believed; he will thereby emerge victorious.

But first, just for his own petty satisfaction and because now he knows he can tempt al-Tayyib just as much; one last game. One last chase.

And this time Nicolò will not stop until _he_ is the one with the cat in his claws.


	3. Birgu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nicolò finally figures out the trick to winning this game of theirs. Victory is within reach at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I couldn't get into my big bang writing tonight you get this, a day ahead of my own impromptu schedule. Expect chapter 4 on Friday or Saturday!
> 
> And, as ever- enjoy ;)
> 
> Now with bonus edit as well! Thanks to Polar for [this chapter-specific dreamy moodboard!!!!](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/post/636501769066807296/a-second-edit-for-the-wonderful-fic-by-a-feral-lil)

It is in Malta that Nicolò catches his thief. Because of course it is. Only it is not in Valletta; but Birgu. Al-Tayyib is growing in infamy day by day, unable to remain hidden forever, but Nicolò has not even tried to catch him on his last three jobs, for a few different reasons. Firstly; because as soon as he had come close he had realised how justified al-Tayyib's targets were. Secondly; because the man was getting through his work at a rate Nicolò could never hope to match (which really put into perspective how much he must have _wanted_ to see Nicolò the times before to let him catch up each time). And thirdly; because Nicolò is busy playing his own game.

He begins by going home, back to Genoa, to see the remains of his family for the first time in a while and settle his affairs there. His cousin is still trading, his sister married nearby, and he has a few new faces to greet as he finalises the sale of the remainder of his inheritance; a house and a share of some stocks that he neither wants nor needs. Then his trip takes him back to Venice- just for his own pleasure really- knowing with comforting certainty that although al-Tayyib will not be there in person, he will definitely hear about Nicolò's visit somehow. Then Nicolò tours, slowly, through the cities where they have met, picking up what news about the thief that he can on the way, and winding steadily south back to Malta.

At the harbour in Birgu Nicolò stops, pauses, and waits for al-Tayyib to realise that he is no longer following, and come to see why.

Really his trap is a simple one. All he has to do is lay low and enjoy the finer things in life, waiting to see how long it takes his enemy- and he still calls him that privately for the sheer thrill of it- to lose himself to jealousy and draw in close. How else does one catch a thief other than making themselves into a most alluring bait? Flies and honey, as the old women of his childhood would say. He steadfastly ignores the breadcrumb hints thrown all-too-conveniently his way as his thief seeks to tempt him out and back into the chase; one day it is a paper wrongly delivered to his lodgings, another time an urchin is calling on the corner Nicolò passes daily in order to get his lunch about the movements of a particularly decadent treasure. It almost makes Nicolò smile- the lengths that al-Tayyib will go to for his attention- and it definitely makes him smile to realise that his thief is just as addicted to their game as he himself has been. He tosses the urchin a few coins and brings him fruit whenever he sees him thereafter, but never again hears him shout about anything other than local news.

It tastes like impending victory when Nicolò hears of a job completed in Naples and then Salerno; Calabria and then Syracuse. His skin itches and buzzes like there is lightning in the air, the crackle of static before an oncoming storm, as al-Tayyib approaches, stalking closer at such impossible speed- to get to Nicolò.

On a whim Nicolò decides to tip the game just that little bit further, remembering their standout meeting in Venice. He makes a few well-placed friends so that he can get himself invited to parties and spends every one wondering if this is the night that his enemy will reach him. It never is, not for the entire two weeks after hearing of the job in Syracuse which comes as no great disappointment. Because there are no more reports of precious artefacts vanishing under mysterious circumstances, either further away or close to Birgu, so Nicolò knows that the absence must be deliberate; al-Tayyib is nearby somewhere and choosing not to fall into Nicolò's admittedly very obvious trap. Nor into his arms, which is the larger shame.

Not about to give up just yet, Nicolò starts combining the two tactics together; combing the city for his enemy day after day as he attends parties at night and sits in the corner drinking, scanning the crowd like he had once scanned the crew of a merchant ship, and the ballroom of a Venetian mansion. _Come to me_ , he thinks, willing al-Tayyib to take that final step. _Come and see if I am yours._

_Let me catch you._

  
  


Their silent, unspoken circling is dragged out for far longer than Nicolò likes. He has underestimated al-Tayyib's own prideful patience, it seems, or else has not been clear enough that his new lifestyle is for his enemy's benefit; not his own. Not a single sign of the thief in almost a month is agony, but he has to believe this will work. He leaves his windows and door unlocked; wanders around alone at parties or through the streets at night; sits in various squares and watches the world go by day after day. None of it yields a familiar voice in his ear or welcome hands on his clothes... or indeed under them.

"Perhaps I ought to get back on the ships," he sighs aloud one day, back in his room after a full day of reading about the history of the Renaissance from a newly purchased book, sat in the square. He has decided that while he waits he will try and learn what his enemy's world consists of, so art and history and the intricacies of authenticity and ownership have become his daily companions (while an infuriating, gentle-handed man refuses to be). The book is more than dry, but Nicolò had blinked and squinted his way gamely through it, running his finger across the words and murmuring to himself through the more difficult passages as he gulped coffee to stay awake. There had been a moment when he had looked up at the kind waiter- sharply, because the soft voice asking if Nicolò wanted a refill had seemed fleetingly familiar- but it could not have been his thief, not in a well-worn shirt and apron, dark curls messy on his head and smudges of coffee on his cheek. Nicolò had almost wished it had been. For a tiny moment he had even dreamed that there was no thief waiting in the wings, and that he could simply talk to the handsome waiter with no other pressures than a mutual spark of interest. Something normal. But what his thief offered had no comparison and no competition- how could Nicolò ever settled for normal when he had tasted the divine?

"Does that mean I win?"

Nicolò shouts, his whole body going flying over the chair he had been about to walk past as he spins around and trips over it. He and it both go sprawling, landing side by side at the feet of the intruder.

He looks up.

And curses.

"I should have _known_ ," he sulks. Before he can move al-Tayyib snorts and leans down to offer his hands, helping to lift Nicolò up to his feet.

"While I am most pleased to have finally had you on your knees, this wasn't quite how I'd imagined it," the kind waiter, or the bloody thief, or his worst-most-irritating-alluring-frustrating-addictive enemy, says calmly. Nicolò looks again, searching brown eyes for the first time. No; not _calmly_ \- something deeper boils in them but his thief is choosing to affect nonchalance. Why?

"Are you nervous?" Nicolò blurts out, still holding al-Tayyib's hands. His fingers are being held much tighter all of a sudden, but from the brief flicker of panic on al-Tayyib's handsome face Nicolò knows why. "You are. You _are?!_ "

"It is not every day you change the rules of a game of many months," al-Tayyib replies dryly, raising an eyebrow. "Although I suppose _you_ changed them first."

That is fair. Nicolò would say as much but he has become extremely lost in looking at his enemy; learning the lines of his face and matching the fullness of his beard- the swell of his lips- the shape of his fingers- to how they had all felt before he could see them. From the tiny parting of al-Tayyib's lips Nicolò knows he is being studied in return, although al-Tayyib's gaze in contrast strays no further than from one of Nicolò's eyes to the other.

"Do I please you?" al-Tayyib says after they have drunk their fill of each other, too breathless. "Is this what you hoped for when you chose your victory?"

"It is everything."

"Everything," al-Tayyib repeats softly, licking his lips. Nicolò fixates on the motion. "Is that all?" The tease is gentle but Nicolò has lived months of his life- nearly a year all told- in competition with this man and his blood rises out of pure habit.

"It might be more, if you fulfil your side of the deal."

"Refresh my memory, Nicolò," al-Tayyib purrs, and the control of the room cedes his way. But Nicolò will fight dirty if he must. 

"I have caught you, and broken your patience no less. Now I will have you, fair and square."

"Ah but you forget so quickly Nicolò, that there is another part to the terms I laid out."

Nicolò tilts his head, trying to think back. He remembers Venice in a sort of dreamy haze, even now. "Was there?"

"Yes," al-Tayyib says, and being able to see his face when he speaks this way to Nicolò is intoxicating and almost too much to bear. His eyes are burning coals in his face, scorching Nicolò to the core. It is a small relief when he steps closer and presses his lips to Nicolò's ear, hands held between their chests. "Are you mine? And will you _crawl_."

What words could he speak that would be enough to answer that in full? What reply is adequate apart from the one he has already begun to choose? Nicolò breathes in deeply and pushes al-Tayyib until he is forced to sit on the bed or fall onto it.

And then he goes to lock the door; setting the chair under the handle just in case; closing the windows; and drops to his knees right there on the floor.

Al-Tayyib, previously lounging on the bed, immediately straightens up and inhales sharply. Good- he should be just as wrecked by this as Nicolò feels, crawling across the wooden floor until he reaches his thief's knees and stops, waiting, eyes wide on al-Tayyib's pink face. He wants al-Tayyib to understand, and to answer in kind. And he does.

"You have me," his enemy whispers, though it is more of a breath made into words. "Victory is yours."

It feels _glorious_.

  
  


Hands grip thighs; hands grip hair; al-Tayyib kisses him with all the heat and tenderness he had once shown in Venice. Nicolò keeps his eyes open, but so does his thief- at least until al-Tayyib's hands slide deeper in his hair and clasp his head possessively. Nicolò shivers then, and his eyelids flutter shut without his permission, seeking more from al-Tayyib's mouth. It is given gladly, an outpouring of desire mixed with the curiosity of metaphorically changing footing beneath them, tasting and testing and exploring new ground.

Nicolò does not know who the first one to moan is. It is impossible to tell because the sound is captured between them quickly and eagerly shared, built large and loud as they trade it back and forward on their tongues. Nicolò's legs are shaking from holding him awkwardly up for so long but he refuses to move. Al-Tayyib senses it though, and lifts him by the hold he has on Nicolò's skull, pulling him up still kissing until they stand chest to chest in the small rented room. Nicolò's hands hover uncertainly until they find a home on al-Tayyib's waist, curling into his shirt.

He realises belatedly that al-Tayyib is still dressed as the waiter. The shirt is thin, and warm from the skin just underneath and Nicolò distracts himself by looking down to see his own hands press and knead the shapes of muscles awaiting him. Distantly he knows al-Tayyib is muttering breathlessly; promises and pleas in equal measure, patiently waiting for Nicolò to do what he wishes but desperately wanting him to hurry up. A tiny copy of the dynamic of their relationship so far, Nicolò thinks, snorting softly.

"What is funny?" al-Tayyib asks hoarsely, leaning in to suck on Nicolò's earlobe. Nicolò of course promptly forgets how to speak, sagging into al-Tayyib's body, trusting him to catch him. "Nicolò, my Nicolò. Your joy brings me joy, it would be my pleasure to bring you pleasure, such as you have never felt before. May I?"

"I was to have you-"

"Later, later my Nicolò. I am parched for the taste of you and you would not deny a hungry man his sustenance, would you? You crawled for me, Nicolò, you _crawled_. I am barely able to believe I have not yet tossed you onto this bed to bury inside you, the thought is so vivid in my mind."

"Dear God," Nicolò whimpers, arching his body into al-Tayyib's. "Yes, al-Tayyib, yes-"

"No."

"No?" Nicolò's head is spinning too fast to comprehend this. "What 'no'? Will you tease me now?!"

His thief chuckles, but the sound is raw from fraying control and his hands are getting tighter, tighter, moving to bind Nicolò to him at his hip and the nape of his neck. He breathes deeply and lets go but only so that he can tip Nicolò's head up, meeting his eyes with a heated look that staggers them both a step to the side. They catch their balance together, widening their feet and pushing ever closer to steady themselves as one. "No Nicolò, but I would have only my name, my true name, dripping from your lips tonight. I would hear it offered up to the heavens from your worshipful throat, as yours is by mine. I would have you forget every word in every language until only that remains. Well," he smirks, "that and perhaps a few choice others. 'Please', would be appropriate. And 'more' _._ And _'_ _yes'_."

"Yes," Nicolò croaks, agreeing in a heartbeat. He feels hot all over, legs weak, all his strength fled to his arms and his heart and his mouth, so that he might use them to his thief's ends.

Oh.

Nicolò thinks he understands now.

He is victorious indeed; not just because al-Tayyib has told him so but because he has every part of his enemy. Nicolò _has him_. He has him so deeply that al-Tayyib would drop his work to come and have _Nicolò._ And there is nothing like the rush of that feeling.

When he smiles, dreamily and soft in counterpoint to their heat and base lust; al-Tayyib hesitates, searching his face with wonder and a small bit of alarm. But Nicolò only waits, content to be patient because al-Tayyib will give him what he wants. Because he is Nicolò's and Nicolò has him and he would crawl a thousand times over a thousand wooden floors to bring this man into his heart, and his bed.

"You look-" al-Tayyib murmurs, brushing under an eye with the gentle touch Nicolò has come so swiftly to crave. " _Radiant_. Have you-"

"Yes, have me," Nicolò says back, pleased with his own quick-wittedness. "All of me."

The thief rocks back slightly, reading the certainty on Nicolò's face, and breaks at last into a truly blinding smile, bringing the sun directly into the room with them. "Patience pays off," he grins, wrapping his arms around Nicolò's waist and hefting him up. He spins them once, and then does as promised and does indeed toss Nicolò onto the bed, taking his turn to crawl, up the bed to hover over him.

"Your name?" Nicolò reminds him before the matter can fall too far from their thoughts. Al-Tayyib, his enemy, great wonderful thief and rescuer of lost things, bends down and presses his own name directly onto Nicolò's tongue, once- twice- three times to make sure it sticks. _Yusuf_ , he says, the word ringing down into Nicolò's bones and branding there where it belongs. _Yusuf_ , he says and Nicolò takes it for his own. "Yusuf," he gasps, blinded all over again by the same sunshine-smile. "My Yusuf."

"Yes, yours."

"I have you."

"You have me. And I can wait no longer to have _you_ in a very delightful way, Nicolò. My patience has been tested immensely." Nicolò meets his eyes. Yusuf gazes right back. "Take off your clothes and mine."

This feels familiar, and yet not. The rasp of Yusuf's voice has layers to it Nicolò couldn't hear before but it still makes his hands tremble with the same anticipation as ever, and stirs him to familiar dizzying hardness in his trousers. He all but wrenches his own shirt away, fighting with Yusuf's so that his lovely face is not concealed for longer than a moment. The ties on his own trousers prove troublesome but Yusuf just sits back on his haunches and shamelessly palms himself, watching with dark amusement while Nicolò struggles, and refusing to lend a hand even when Nicolò whines pitifully.

"You are a cruel man, Yusuf," he sulks, forcing his mind to focus harder, sitting up a little to pick at the tangled knot of laces. Yusuf has lowered himself before Nicolò knows it, strong arms braced either side of him so he can breathe into Nicolò's ear, freezing Nicolò still.

"You may enjoy a little of my cruelty, soon. It can be so satisfying. Did you not enjoy how it felt to crawl, after all?"

Nicolò looks up at him with wide eyes, finding him deliriously close, and swallows thickly. Mercifully Yusuf moves away so that he can think again, but he is back soon enough with a little knife, holding it out easily. Nicolò grabs it and cuts his own waistband open without remorse, and then does the same for Yusuf before the man can protest, enjoying the aroused surprise that briefly floods his face.

The knife is tossed far away, then, so that neither of them have to worry about losing anything important. Nicolò says as much, pushing up into Yusuf's space and laving his tongue over the soft skin just below the neat line of his beard, tasting his sweat. Yusuf chuckles and slides his hands down the sides of Nicolò's hips, gliding easily under his torn trousers and cupping behind, chuckling again more thickly when Nicolò twitches and whines. It shouldn't feel new, but Yusuf's hands have so rarely been anywhere other than over his eyes, or on his waist or shoulders, pressing him where he wants him and holding him firm, unable to explore or caress. Evidently he is making up for lost time now; he cannot seem to keep them still. From Nicolò's ass they run back up, feeling out his spine and down again partway to his ribs, around under his arms and up his chest, brushing his nipples on the way past. Yusuf's palms flatten out on the front of his shoulders and push him firmly down to the mattress, repeating the pressure a few times until he can sit up and Nicolò does not seek to follow, staying where he has been put on his back.

Now sitting, his thief waits until Nicolò is watching to then run his hands up his own thighs to the cut fastening of his trousers. He pulls the two sides apart, a smile curling slowly over his lips at Nicolò's response to the sight of him pushing for freedom. He has been fairly well acquainted with Yusuf's cock before now, but he has not yet _seen it_ , nor touched it or tasted it, and that feels like a gross oversight that ought to be _immediately_ corrected.

"Please, Yusuf," Nicolò rasps, licking his lips.

Yusuf tilts his head. "I was right, they are good words for you. Say them again."

" _Please_ , Yusuf!"

"Again."

"Yusuf, Yusuf please I want-"

"Again, my Nicolò, again, over and over. Sing them to me."

Nicolò feels wild, a beast more than a man, chest heaving hard as he twists the words Yusuf wants into as many melodies as he can, hoping to unlock the one that will have Yusuf giving in to his begging. He forgets everything but that, utterly unmoving on the mattress even though Yusuf has not restrained him. Even his hips are still but for the tremors of lust that shoot more and more frequently down his spine to gather between his legs. He should want to rock up, seek friction for his poor, aching cock against the loosened fabric trap of his trousers but he can't _think_ , can't even _conceive_ of anything that is not Yusuf and the treasure promised to Nicolò waiting between his thief's legs.

"Don't worry," Yusuf croons. "I will grant you your every desire, Nicolò. Why are you in such a state?" He laughs, harder when Nicolò lets a wordless sound of indignation bubble up from his chest. "I know, I know, I am sorry. I should be kind to you, no?" His fingers are more beautiful and captivating that Nicolò could have imagined when they flutter over his own hips, down the trail of hair that disappears into his clothes, to the fabric tight on his thighs. And then at long last he reaches inside- hitches his hips indulgently just the once- and pulls his cock out, shoving his trousers down to his knees.

Nicolò nearly swoons. All the blood has rushed from his head to pool further south.

Yusuf wastes no further time and stands on the bed so he can climb out of the clinging fabric (Nicolò understands, he would cling to those legs as well if he could) and then kneels back down, divesting Nicolò of his own trousers in a swift yank, finesse lost to desperation. He feels awkward and exposed for all of a moment before remembering that Yusuf has seen far more of him than he of Yusuf and there is no sense being shy. He also could never remain self-conscious under the physical weight of Yusuf's adoring, hungry eyes.

With the memory of his earlier epiphany urging him on- whispering that Yusuf is just as caught as he is (at last)- Nicolò draws his heels a little way up the bed and drops his knees, one after the other, to either side. He spreads his legs like he would his arms for a hug and Yusuf takes one long look before falling into place between them.

"If only I could bear to just look at you forever, Nicolò-" he cries, pushing Nicolò's legs up over his shoulders. "But this art must be touched to be truly enjoyed. Don't forget your words now my darling."

"Which ones- oh _Yusuf_ yes!"

Yusuf proceeds to unpick every thread of what makes Nicolò a functioning man and leave him shaking, a mess of parts with the deceptively simple stimulus of his head between Nicolò's legs. One part shouts and sobs and cries out whatever his undoer wishes most to hear. One part twists and writhes and arches, puppeteered by Yusuf's mouth. Another part heats him and roars in his ear, glistening slick sweat from head to toe until his hair sticks to his face and Yusuf reaches up to tenderly brush it back.

He shudders back into some semblance of the man he had been an hour ago when Yusuf pulls his mouth back, lips shining while he tongues at them curiously. "I almost expected you to taste like a fine wine," he admits with a quiet laugh and a shake of his head, rubbing Nicolò's thigh absently like he has forgotten his hand is there. Nicolò just stares at him and pants, trying to draw in breath. Though all he breathes now is the man against him- air feels utterly wasted in his lungs when he has Yusuf. "But you taste of man, same as any other."

"You do not like it?" Nicolò asks, heart in his throat. Before he can panic Yusuf curls over and presses a soft kiss to his stomach, beard adding yet more tingles of pink to Nicolò's skin.

He looks up from there, an eyebrow raised. Nicolò tries not to think about how close his cock is to Yusuf's skin, brushing his neck, but it's hard. Undeniably hard. Nicolò groans.

"I do. How could I not? Look, feel how much I want every bit of you Nicolò." Yusuf unfolds, slinks further up the bed to press their noses together, guiding Nicolò's hand down to wrap around him. He's as hard as Nicolò is, just as hot, and Yusuf groans just as deeply and desperately as Nicolò when he pulls his wrist on an experimental stroke, learning the heft of him under his fingers. "See?" Yusuf says, voice taut. "I- Nicolò, _Nicolò._ "

It takes only a few more slow tugs of his hand for Yusuf's arms to shake and betray him, collapsing him down onto Nicolò in a breathtaking attack of skin. They tangle together as a mess of limbs, kissing hard enough to make the end of Nicolò's nose feel a little tender from pressing repeatedly into Yusuf's cheek, and his chin to spark raw from the scratch of Yusuf's beard. The air fills with a symphony of _please_ and _yes_ and _Yusuf_ and _Nicolò_ , sharp cries and slicker sounds underscoring their melody. Hands are forced out from between them but they find a new rhythm and share it generously, rocking in the bed like they're back on the ship to Bari. 

"I wanted to wait, get inside you, but- _Nicolò-_ " Yusuf groans, swallowed quickly by Nicolò's impatient mouth. "Nicolò, my Nicolò- can you stop? Can you wait? Or-"

"Next time- next time. You promised me the heights of pleasure and I will scream if you move away from me now, if even for the smallest moment, _please_. _I need you_."

"And I you."

They peak in an almost mundane way, nothing unusual or especially sinful about their sex at all; just two lovers entwined, heart to heart on a simple mattress in a simple room, meeting for the first time without anything between them.

It pleases Nicolò greatly to discover what Yusuf sounds like when he comes. A little shocked, a little delighted, but mostly relieved, and satisfied, humming into Nicolò's neck while his hips finish their final twitchy punches. When Nicolò follows he curls his toes, grinding up. He goes loose again and pants for a moment before wrapping one leg around the back of Yusuf's thigh and imprisoning Yusuf against him. It distantly occurs to him that for the first time he is the one ensuring Yusuf will not escape, instead of the other way round. The thought makes him smile and cling all the tighter.

The heat between them does not subside but their fervour does, turning to wide, sated smiles and the softest hints of huffed laughter. They press their foreheads together as they embrace and then lose time to kisses.

Nicolò cannot fathom how he lived without this before.


	4. Birgu, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days after their wonderfully romantic reunion Nicolò finds he is still not entirely satisfied. Romance is lovely, but he misses the thrill of their trysts... Is that still on the cards for him and Yusuf?
> 
> Of course it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the biggest chapter in this entire crazy thing! Clocking in at roughly a third of the entire fic, I believe, unless editing has worked something impossible... And it is almost entirely Yusuf and Nicolò getting down and dirty, aren't you all lucky?
> 
> I'm hoping the 'sex physics' as it was lovingly named by my server fam (looking at you DM) is somewhat readable. I know what **_I_** was picturing, at least ;) 
> 
> Final chapter should be dropping on Sunday!

They come together that way six more times over the next couple of days before Nicolò realises that he wants more. They've been gentle, and sweet, reveling in a new way of existing together. Yusuf has worshipped him in every way, and every position, all over the damn bed but Nicolò is ashamed to say that he has grown greedy and craves the heat that had once bent him over a rooftop railing; the carnality that had driven their very first climax when Yusuf had decided to lay his clever hands on Nicolò, and seduced him into wantonness forevermore.

Nicolò could blame Yusuf for his desires but he knows they are entirely his own. It's part of what makes them fit so well together; that shared deep pool of lust that they gladly dive into together. And this? It is nice as well. But Nicolò has felt the soothing sigh of a tender release wash over him like the tide enough times now to want to feel it hit him like the rough ocean wave he knows it can also be. The way he knows Yusuf can _make_ it be, for him.

And more than anything else he wants Yusuf deep inside while that happens, and the damn stubborn thief has not yet seen fit to cross that line.

"Yusuf," Nicolò murmurs, while Yusuf is rocking lazily into the small of his back, both of them luxuriating in the low shivers of warmth that promise another round is imminent. Yusuf hums, nosing into Nicolò's hair and sighing heavily, but does not reply. "Yusuf," Nicolò tries again, more insistently, receiving a distracted noise of curiosity that will have to do. "When are you going to take me the way you promised to?"

The head at his neck lifts then, and with an easy shift of limbs they rearrange to lie beside each other, Nicolò is on his back and Yusuf propping himself up, gazing down at him. He sweeps a hand up and down Nicolò's chest, the barest sensation of touch.

Nicolò wishes it would reach his throat.

"What is it you are asking?" Yusuf says, his deepened, sleep-and-sex-rough voice making Nicolò's toes curl.

"I want more," Nicolò replies, knowing he is whining and blushing a little bit. "Sorry, it's not that I don't love what we've done- what we are doing. But you have well and truly proven that we have each other heart to heart. I find myself in need of…"

"More."

"Yes, and I know- I _think_ you still want that too?"

Yusuf's eyes don't change, not physically. But somehow the weight of them goes from soft and adoring to heavy and hungry. Nicolò fights a shudder, but it is night impossible to conceal even the tiniest of movements while naked and pressed together. He clutches at the sheets, long since crumpled underneath them. "'You think'?" Yusuf repeats slowly, graceful as a mountain lion when he starts to lift himself up. "I wonder that you don't feel it every time I touch you; how it _burns_ within me."

"What does?" Nicolò whispers. Yusuf is very close and very, very attractive and he is helpless to deny the arousal that comes knocking once the thief is braced above him, strong hands placed neatly either side of his head, caging him in.

Yusuf smiles, slow and dark. Nicolò bites his lip. "This awful, crazy need to see you as I have only caught glimpses of before." Nicolò almost asks but his breath is caught and Yusuf mercifully continues anyway, eyes wandering down, caressing the bare skin he can see before journeying back up to Nicolò's wide, transfixed eyes. "Driven to wildness- as animal as a man can be- a slave to instincts far older than civilisation. It is an open flame within me that seeks its fuel and you are that fuel my Nicolò; do not doubt it. I could devour you whole and still never have enough. And you would give me-"

" _Everything._ "

The smile feels like a benediction; a blessing. "Yes. You would, wouldn't you? If I told you to open the windows so that the whole city could hear your wondrous supplication under my hands you would. If I brought you to a ship and had you on deck in the middle of a storm- tied you to the mast like a lucky charm and sacrificed our propriety to the sea herself- you would let me. If I only ever stole my pleasure from you for the rest of our lives, took you inside me and left you empty time after time? You would not say anything but 'thank you'."

The thought stings like drinking too-hot coffee or sucking ice at the height of summer. It would be worth it, it would sate him if it was Yusuf's skin on his in any way. "Thank you," Nicolò says, earnestly, just to prove the point. Yusuf laughs softly, moving his weight so that he might free a hand to brush over the side of Nicolò's face.

"That last one I can assure you won't ever come to pass," he says, tapping the bow of Nicolò's lips once. "I may not have enjoyed the delights of your body fully yet but I know like I know my own heartbeat that I will not want to stop once I have had you for the first time.

"But enough from me. I have talked plenty. Why don't you share what is in your… well perhaps not your _heart_ ," Yusuf winks down at him and Nicolò is helpless against the urge to grin shyly at him. "You have desires too, Nicolò. Tell me."

It is the firm demand that loosens his tongue enough to speak again. "I desire you."

"Mm, yes, I know."

"Inside me."

"I know that too."

" _Yusuf_ ," Nicolò huffs, using his elbows to push his upper body off the bed and into range to kiss the smug smirk off Yusuf's face. "I want you to stop being cruel and do what you promised in Venice and Valletta and Rome and-"

"I don't recall."

"They weren't promises you made with your words, my thief," Nicolò retorts, "but with your hands; your hips; your cock… You spoke soliloquies with those. And you _did_ say I could have you when you laid out your terms. It is just that I want you less how you seem to have intended and more… just more. I need to be made delirious! Driven from my own mind. Can you take me that far, or have you run out of things to do to me?"

Yusuf stares at him and Nicolò wonders if he is actually angry at the accusation or if that hard edge to his expression is something else. Either way it makes Nicolò's heart race and his mouth dry to watch his thief react to his taunting. If only he'd known how easy it would be to rile Yusuf up like this- he would have done so as soon as they'd caught their breath from round one of sharing a bed together.

Speaking of which…

He leans up close to Yusuf again, brushing first his lips and then his teeth over the shell of Yusuf's ear. "And if you have me on the bed again before we've tried every other inch of this room then I will be _very_ disappointed."

His body shakes with the force of Yusuf's growl. The bed shakes with the force of Yusuf shoving him down against it, hands tight as iron on his upper arms, just as unyielding as Nicolò remembers. "You are playing with fire by being so insolent, Nicolò."

" _Burn me_ ," Nicolò just begs, tipping his head back. Yusuf's lips scorch up his throat to ignite him lips-first and he is set ablaze.

  
  


The room feels hazy when Yusuf finishes his fire-starter kisses. It must be hours- maybe _days_ since he started, but Nicolò is beyond noticing. With a sure hold keeping him pinned in place and molten heat in his veins he has forgotten the rest of the world and even himself, but now he distantly realises just how desperately hard he is. Perhaps hours was not such a bad estimate. His raw, tender lips certainly provide evidence in support.

"Turn," Yusuf says, ignoring Nicolò's whimper of loss when his glorious heat retreats away from Nicolò's front. "Not on the bed you said, but I have other ideas. You were entirely too arrogant in your demands my sweet, and I think you would rather I made the decisions anyhow. So turn; kneel; and spread. Your hands go on the wall, flat above the headboard. Do not move them."

Nicolò hastens to obey, knees digging into the pillows. He settles, shifting his stance wide and leaning heavily on the wall at the head of the bed. He can't breathe- he wants to listen to every movement behind him too much- and he grows dizzy until a hand sneaks around and pets over his chest.

"Breathe," the voice soothes, so he does, head hanging low between his braced arms. "That's better. Now let's look at you, pretty Nicolò. You are quite the sight; poised and awaiting my command. Do your thighs ache yet from holding you in place? Are your hands trembling on the plaster? Do you feel like you might cry if I don't touch you?"

"Touch me-!" Nicolò gasps, drowned out by Yusuf's laugh.

"No. Not just because you asked, no. I'll touch you when I can no longer bear to keep my hands off your skin, but for now you will enjoy my gaze and my gaze alo- don't move!" Nicolò bites his lip and stops flexing his hand, flattening it back into position. "Oh _Nicolò_ , I thought you would be so eager to please. But perhaps you still want to fight and taunt me…"

"No, I- Yusuf no, I would not-"

"Ah, but experience tells me you would. Are you so needy that you cannot enjoy a little patience?"

"I can be patient. I can."

"Then prove it. Be still." Yusuf's voice brooks no argument but Nicolò has no thoughts other than obedience anyway. He locks his joints and concentrates on staying frozen as perfectly as he can. Yusuf's hum of approval lends strength to his determination and his muscles in equal measure. "That's better. Now I can take my time to look. You have such a lovely body, Nicolò, I have always thought so. Even before I peeled it out of all those layers I knew it awaited me. I could see it in the way you walked; how you bent when I bid you; that sweet, tempting way you always gave me your throat. I have called you a mouse, and a dog, but you are more akin to a wolf, hunting me and now rolling over for the bigger beast. Is that what happened? Did you seek to challenge me for control and find yourself thoroughly beaten? Or did you only seek me out to find someone willing and able to make you kneel? Do you accept where you belong with me because you fought and lost and accept it wholeheartedly, or because you craved it all along? That first time I drew out your honey cries were you surprised or merely satisfied? I have often wondered..." 

Nicolò does not speak when the words pause. He could not bear for Yusuf's words to stop pouring into his ears, drugging him like sweet liqueur. Evidently this is pleasing to Yusuf because his voice is all smiles when it picks back up, underscored by the sound of his body moving off the bed. Nicolò is still determined to follow his instructions and keeps his head down and his eyes on nothing but the shifting sheets, himself unmoving.

"You're learning. What a treat," Yusuf praises him from somewhere in the room. While Nicolò bites his lip on a moan he hears material rustling, and then what sounds like a bottle-top being opened. A slick, brushing sound comes next, a few moments later, and Yusuf groans. He must be touching himself. Nicolò flushes red but manages not to moan. "Let me see you properly. Close your eyes but raise your head with all the pride I know you have in you, darling mine."

Nicolò is indeed proud, and not just to do as he is told. He stretches his back as artfully as possible and aims to give Yusuf something enjoyable to gaze at, floating on the thrill of knowing beyond all doubt that Yusuf finds him as attractive as he does in return. Yusuf moves over beside the head of the bed and the slick sounds continue as he strokes himself slowly. Nicolò can all but feel the touch of eyes on his skin like a physical sensation. "I have had those thighs so often now that I know them intimately. We are such wonderful friends. But they are the starter course to a main meal I starve for. Delicious. Hm, and you have been obliging... I would like to hear you speak now. How would you want me, when I open you up?"

"I- how could I choose?" Nicolò croaks.

"A fair point," Yusuf agrees, the mattress bowing a little when he climbs up behind Nicolò again, knees brushing up against the insides of Nicolò's calves. His hands close on Nicolò's hips but stay light and chaste, simply holding on. "Alright, you have options; facing me or not?"

"Facing, I think."

"On or under me?"

That one makes Nicolò hesitate. He knows now that there is a certain appeal to the 'on' option that he particularly likes. But 'under' is an exquisite pleasure of its own that he cannot undersell... "I don't know."

"Pick one."

"I can't- I can't Yusuf I can't choose please, I am sorry-" No sooner has his voice started to rise than Yusuf is there to reassure him. It's just a kiss on Nicolò's shoulder, but it is enough to settle him back down again from his rising panic. "I am sorry."

A soft huff of air curls over the same spot that had been kissed and makes him shiver. "You have no need to be. I wanted your words and you gave them. What a gift, my Nicolò. Such a gift. But very well- I will choose. Just one final question; do you want to finish from my fingers?"

Nicolò considers again, giving the question the time it deserves. They only get one chance to do this for the first time, although it will by no means be the last. "If I do, what happens after?"

"I will make you come again on my cock," Yusuf promises, soothing the vague fear Nicolò had not known how to voice. "I can take you slow and steady enough to ensure that." His smug tone eases away the last of Nicolò's hesitance, leaving him free to nod eagerly.

"Then, that. I want to do that."

"Do what? Can you not say it?" Yusuf teases. He kisses Nicolò's shoulder again lightly. "Say it for me."

"I want to-"

"... you want to?"

"To be finished by your fingers, and then again by your cock-" he gasps as the words sear his throat. "Yusuf _please_ I want it!"

Yusuf moves off the bed and clears his throat. "Then open your eyes and take my hand. We are done with the bed for now, my Nicolò."

Nicolò follows his thief from the bed, tripping on unsteady legs and caught quickly by confident arms, over to the simple wooden chair in the corner of the room. No longer propped under the door handle, it is tucked against the wall- just to the right of the window. When Yusuf turns and sits back in it the light coming through the shutters- it looks to be late afternoon or early evening- paints him like the very art he steals. Nicolò here and now thoroughly understands the depth of Yusuf's devotion to returning that art to its home. It is only that in this case; Nicolò himself is the home he wishes Yusuf to return to.

The man in question guides him, keeping him from trying to sit astride his thighs with a single touch to his hip. Instead he brings Nicolò close, so his legs are parted in a stable stance, his feet knocked just a little further apart by Yusuf's to meet with his approval. If Nicolò were to step forwards he would be standing over Yusuf's knees, but he has not been invited to do so yet, placed on display instead, trying to forget how bare he is. It is impossible though, with the way Yusuf lets go and leans back to watch him, eyeing Nicolò's cock in particular with appreciation. Nicolò shudders, inhaling deeply and swallowing dryly. Yusuf is simply resplendent, lounging on the plain wooden chair like it is a throne and he a king; an emperor; perhaps (and Nicolò is certainly far gone enough for the blasphemy) a god. He is utterly, gloriously naked but here- away from the bed- it feels almost obscene, and all the more arousing for it. Nicolò's breathing is shaky already but it hitches as he wanders his own eyes down that spectacular body, drinking in the slightly paler parts of Yusuf's body, and the part of him that makes Nicolò's mouth water. He has had Yusuf in his mouth twice already and it is nothing short of perfection. Although now he suspects that a slightly rougher experience would top the gentle one, as with all of their activities so far.

"Wolf indeed," Yusuf murmurs. "You have the eyes of one. And the same tenacity of the hunt."

"I would rather be hunted," Nicolò disagrees.

"That is a hunt of its own, my sweet. Now take this and pour some on my hand."

He passes over an open bottle of oil- mostly full, which must be what he had gone to get and use not long before- with a hand that remains outstretched and upturned. Nicolò follows his directions and smiles at Yusuf's quiet murmur of approval, watching him rub his fingers together and spread the oil liberally, coating the first two digits especially thoroughly. "How much wider can you stand, before you cannot hold it for long?" he asks, tilting his head curiously. "Perhaps it would be better if you sat, but I want you to work as well…"

"I can go further, like this?" Nicolò offers, demonstrating. He shuffles around, widening his legs. It feels exposed but not enough, and from the twist of Yusuf's lips he must agree. "Or… _oh!_ " Yusuf chuckles, reaching out and tugging. Nicolò squirms to get comfortable in his new position, half-balanced on Yusuf's widely spread legs where the man has pulled him. His toes flex, keeping him from falling back, and the arch of his back necessary to follow the pull of Yusuf's hand on his really does leave him exposed. He flushes again, blinking slowly at Yusuf from up close, very aware of what they both know he is perfectly placed for. "This feels..."

"It will work very well," Yusuf promises. Nicolò shifts again and tests it out. His only support is Yusuf's knees under the back of his own, the very lowest part of his thighs. He hovers over the gap between his thief's legs in what should be an awkward crouch, but Yusuf, hand massaging his thigh tenderly, allows him to lean in and hook his ankles back around Yusuf's shins to anchor in place and they both nod, satisfied. It won't be easy to stay in place but that is part of the point. 

As Yusuf said- he will have to work for this.

Yusuf rubs his fingers to test the oiliness a final time and then at last brushes them down in little hop-skips along Nicolò's spine to the top of his ass, delving down to touch him for the first time somewhere so much more intimate than before. Nicolò squeaks, twitching on instinct, but Yusuf soothes him with the pads of his fingers, slowly circling and never breaking their eye contact while he waits for Nicolò to get used to this new thing. Eventually he does relax, and Yusuf relinquishes his hold on Nicolò's thigh. He supports Nicolò with a low-slung arm around his back, so they can press their chests together, humming when Nicolò uses the angle to nuzzle into his beard for his own reassurance. "You already feel unbelievable, my Nicolò. Will you welcome me in soon? _There_ we go Nicolò, _very good_ …"

Nicolò's moan is a tiny, trembling, breathless thing. He feels a lot like the mouse Yusuf once compared him to, shuddering and cradled against his thief. His thief who knows what soft things to croon into his ears; who knows how to gently sweep his palm over Nicolò's back; who goes slow and steady, reading every cue of Nicolò's body to play him just right. And when his first finger is inside Nicolò feels suddenly as though he can breathe again. He sighs, tension releasing in a loud exhale that ripples through him, down his back to his legs to his toes... all the way to the floor where it puddles on the wooden boards along with his lost higher brain functions. Yusuf is inside him. _Inside him_. It's such a small change but Nicolò will never be the same again.

"There you are." The words draw him back to the surface of his own body. He blinks, seeing nothing but thick beard from where his cheek is resting on Yusuf's shoulder. When he lifts his head Nicolò discovers to his bemusement that he is also clutching Yusuf's arms in a vice-like grip. When did that happen?

His thief is soon moving his finger again, a rhythmic push and pull, still soothing him with sweet, honeyed words. In short order Nicolò feels his blood start to quicken and heat up again, and before long he starts to experiment with shifting his precariously-balanced hips, seeing how it feels to take Yusuf in with his own efforts, instead of just passively waiting. It feels good to be such an active participant. Hedonistic and greedy and excellent. Even more so because Yusuf is showering him with praise; filthy streams of words that he has moved on to from the soothing ones without skipping a beat- because Yusuf is a poet of the heart and the body equally, it would seem. They all lick into Nicolò's core the same.

"Yusuf please?" he whispers, ignoring his knees when they start to twinge from the odd angle and excessive use. "More."

"As you desire my sweet." Another finger joins the first. Nicolò moans louder this time; Yusuf groans softly; and they start to move differently because now Nicolò is growing bold and rocking more decisively. Yusuf appreciates it, bending to suck bruises into Nicolò's neck. "I will give you a third, no but wait- wait for the oil Nicolò, and then I will give you the third and watch you take them. I did not even need to ask you to move for me and already you do, you are too perfect Nicolò, my Nicolò, hungry for more of me…" Yusuf does as he promises, cursing and fumbling the bottle without releasing his supporting grasp around Nicolò's back. It is difficult with one hand but he manages to tilt it it so it can spill liberally over his hand. Yusuf glances at him then and with a salacious wink tips the bottle down the crease of Nicolò's ass.

Nicolò groans into Yusuf's throat, canting his hips to help it run down. "More, more, more Yusuf you promised more-"

"I did. Breathe Nicolò."

The third finger is unimaginable. It presses just like the others, but somehow it is hotter and thicker, rougher too by virtue of being the third. The oil has soaked well into the first two and they slide easily but the third _slips_ and then Yusuf curls his fingers.

With a loud shout Nicolò sits bolt upright, gravity hauling him instantly hard down onto Yusuf's hand. The zinging in his skin doesn't stop, zipping around from top to bottom and back again while he just sits impaled, trying to remember how his body works. He lifts his hands reflexively to bury into his own hair and pull tight, cheeks aflame, eyes squeezed tight shut but mouth open. After a moment he hears Yusuf's concerned voice asking if he is alright, trying to withdraw his hand.

Nicolò clamps down on pure instinct and Yusuf whimpers. When Nicolò opens his eyes his thief is staring at him, lip trapped painfully between his teeth. His chest heaves like Nicolò's does with withheld exertion. How could Nicolò not want to kiss him? His tongue is pulled into Yusuf's mouth at the same time as Yusuf's fingers start moving again, and with the arm around him Yusuf encourages him to take over, to lift and lower, and use his own muscles and stoke his own desire.

"Whatever you want- whatever you need- take it. I said you would come from this Nicolò, so do it. I would have you lost to your pleasure."

He does as Yusuf asks, taking his pleasure gleefully until the flames of it are licking into his core, heat kindled at the tips of Yusuf’s clever fingers.

When Yusuf twists his wrist and scrapes his teeth under Nicolò's chin, hot breath misting on the apple of his throat, Nicolò jerks and finds his release. It is all too easy to tilt forwards into Yusuf's chest and shudder; expect him to hold tight and feel him meet that expectation, pushing every last wave of heavenly sensation from within Nicolò until he lets out a sob of a breath and begs to be allowed respite.

"One day I will do this for so long and so many times over that you'll give me pretty tears but still beg for more."

"You wish to make me cry?" Nicolò frowns, still unable to lift his head. Yusuf holds him closer once he has pulled his fingers carefully out and sighs.

"Not from fear, nor pain nor hurt. Not from anything but sheer, overwhelming _need_ , darling, and perhaps someday also from joy. I hope to never have cause to see tears from you that you have not enthusiastically chosen to release for me. Does that sound better?" Nicolò nods, reassured. That _does_ sound better. And very intriguing. He decides to save the prospect to come back to at a later date when his mind is less muzzy.

Instead he shifts, hissing at the strain on his knees. Yusuf obligingly closes his thighs so Nicolò can rest his weight there fully, sitting comfortably on his lap. It is not the biggest gesture of affection but it hits Nicolò hard and he chokes for a moment on his own emotions. Yusuf clears his airways with a deep kiss, explaining with the press of his lips and sweep of his tongue that he understands; that he feels the same. Nicolò reads it as easily from his kiss as Yusuf would say it aloud.

  
  


The room is still thick with arousal although the initial wild high of release eased off some time ago. Yusuf has moved from sweet kisses to mouthing over his favourite side of Nicolò's neck, up to his jaw to the mark there and back again on a tiny, personal pilgrimage. "You taste like luxury, and dreams," he says when Nicolò softly teases him for his obsession. "Right here is where I always dreamed of coming back to, even before I saw your face properly. It has always been my siren call."

From mouse to dog to wolf to siren. "I am amassing quite the resume of creature comparisons," Nicolò comments idly, playing with Yusuf's hair. It is one of the most surprising parts of Yusuf that he has become newly familiar with- something he could not have imagined on his own and had never known awaited him before seeing him in his room. Or rather- at the café, but that was beside the point. Nicolò loves it, how Yusuf purrs under his fingers and how delicate and tender it feels to hold his skull in his hands and cradle it. The angle isn't right for him to be looking down on Yusuf exactly, but he has enjoyed that view more than enough in their bed already, fondly remembering tilting Yusuf's head where he wanted it to kiss him, and the soft-yet-wide-eyed look it had elicited each time.

"You are an enigma, a beautiful complex puzzle. But I will rest happily with wolf I think," Yusuf replies, muffled by the skin in front of his mouth. His voice hums into Nicolò's skin. "You sound almost energetic again my sweet. Is it time for more?"

"More?" In all honesty Nicolò had forgotten that there was more to come. The most recent finish had been so spectacular and so novel that all other thoughts had fled his mind, but now that he has been reminded… " _More_."

"Indeed," Yusuf chuckles, amused. "I said I would put something else inside you did I not? And you are loose and ready for me now. All that remains is to get this in there." He hitches his hips up, too far from Nicolò's to do much more than underscore his point. He also waggles his eyebrows so that Nicolò laughs, the wonderful idiot. Nicolò can barely comprehend how much he feels for this man.

"Very well. What are you going to do?"

"I thought that was obvious, but if not then-"

"Yusuf! No, I meant _how_. Do you want it to be here? We did not say before."

"How about… one moment." Yusuf lifts him to his feet and lingers for a moment to make sure he is steady before crossing to the bed in a few long, sure strides, grabbing a cushion and returning. Nicolò watches him, trusting that all will become clear soon enough. Yusuf sets it carefully on the chair and moves Nicolò around by the shoulders to sit on top. It puts him at a wonderfully convenient height, so he starts to lean forwards towards Yusuf's cock but Yusuf just side-steps out of the way with a tut and holds him out of reach. He smiles indulgently when Nicolò pouts. "I can never deny you anything, with that face," Yusuf sighs ruefully. He huffs and then steps back into range again, this time allowing Nicolò to draw him in by the hips to take him into his mouth, lavishing adoration over every burning inch. Blessing skin that will soon be inside him. He hears Yusuf doing something above him, the sound of the bottle fumbling through his fingers. Nicolò finds himself eased away so that Yusuf can drip oil down and slick his cock as thoroughly as possible, before he sinks to his knees with an intent look on his handsome face.

"Lean back, get right to the edge of the seat," he urges. Nicolò does. "Spread your knees, my sweet," he says. Nicolò does. "Hold the chair," he directs. Nicolò does. "Say please," the bastard thief smirks. Nicolò fights the urge to compete that Yusuf's smirks always raise in him and _does_.

"Please, Yusuf," he whispers. "Do what you promised." Yusuf does.

He lifts Nicolò's legs over his elbows so he can shuffle closer before quickly hitching one up to his shoulder to free a hand to hold himself for the first glorious push in. He curses and fumbles for the bottle after a moment of quiet, breath-held testing, rocking shallowly. Then back in Yusuf goes with his fingers to urge some additional give into Nicolò's body. The swiftness of it draws a whine from Nicolò that turns to a drawn out groan that turns into a steadily rising moan into a wild cry when Yusuf replaces his fingers with his cock again. Yusuf fits inside him perfectly, pressing in on all sides, no space between them whatsoever. Nicolò can't breathe can't think can't speak can't move can't do _anything but stare at him_ , eyes wide, brows pinched, mouth parted. Yusuf stays seated, easing his legs to settle more comfortably over his arms while Nicolò finds a good grip on the chair, and then-

The first few slow rocks of movement stick in Nicolò's memory forever. He later remembers thinking that what they had done before had unraveled him, unpicked the very core of him- but that that had been nothing compared to this. Merely surface deep; their hearts beating together, but not the rest. The rest is this; he swears he can feel Yusuf's pulse through his _cock_ , saints be praised. How is that possible?! It should be too much but it is only _perfect_.

"Talk to me Nicolò, my Nicolò, tell me what you feel, I must know," Yusuf babbles, the extraordinary effort he is putting into not just wildly thrusting evident in his strained voice.

"Like burning, like _living_ -" Nicolò tries to say back, cursing the rasp of his throat. He manages to get it out on the second try, and Yusuf's eyes shine before they darken.

"Then let us burn bright and hot and alive, and die a little death together."

Nicolò would laugh at the joke but Yusuf shows him the true meaning of carnal delight then, fucking in and out with insistent strokes that punch the air and patience right out of him. Nicolò meets each one with all the eagerness he can offer from his position, but Yusuf seems more than pleased with how he looks; perched and braced on the chair, spread and helpless but willing, so willing. He confirms as much with lavish praise and groans louder than ever when Nicolò's eyes roll a little and fall closed, as things start to peak higher and higher. Despite Yusuf's assurances he had not actually expected to be anywhere near close to coming again so soon. They'd had enough time for him to get halfway to hard again, but the almost forced pleasure apparently... very much works. It won't be like the first but Yusuf had promised him another release and another release is indeed looming on the horizon. 

It hits Nicolò all of a sudden- in a weird distant part of his brain that is floating above the haze of the rest- that contrary to his earlier proclamation he would very much like to repeat this on a bed; preferably sometime soon. To be able to melt completely into Yusuf's hold and think of nothing else but him? Would be such bliss that surely Nicolò would never come back down to earth afterwards.

And then he remembers that he _can have that bliss_ , and along with the fast, deep plunges of Yusuf's hips and cock and the devastating caress of his eyes; Nicolò comes for a second time in as many hours and cannot even scream. He is a phoenix blazing at the end of its life, anticipating and reveling in its impending rebirth even as it goes up in flames. He is boneless and perfect. Yusuf is perfect. _Everything_ is perfect. 

Distantly he feels Yusuf clumsily lift him up, stumbling them to the edge of the bed and laying Nicolò out to finish off within him with a stuttered gasp and a few hitching thrusts so very deep inside. Nicolò smiles, loose and lazy, and lifts a hand to Yusuf's face that is tenderly kissed when it passes his mouth. He waits until their eyes meet again and then he closes his with a sigh, trusting his thief to take care of him in every way.


	5. Return to Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last puzzle pieces fall into place, and so ends this particular adventure for Nicolò and his thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue of this fun little romp. Thank you for joining and enjoying some bodice-ripper inspired vintage erotic fiction! The boys have certainly had a good go of it ;)

Life with Yusuf is unendingly thrilling. Well, in bed it is. They hole up in Nicolò's rented rooms for a month, doing nothing but indulging in one another and going out for walks through the streets; taking in the sights; talking softly to one another. Nicolò learns about Yusuf's family- who are his partners in crime as well apparently, and who have been with him for years. They are incredibly unimpressed by his obsession with his dogged pursuer, Yusuf explains to Nicolò's amusement.

"They helped me though," he admits one day with a wry grin, brushing his fingers over Nicolò's naked spine like he's painting him. "Travelled to keep an eye on you... Passed me messages... Sometimes lead you where you needed to go. They were my hands in your life when I couldn't be nearby."

Nicolò extracts a promise to be allowed to meet them and starts to imagine it; his new place in the world and his new world to explore. But then… nothing happens. They are out for the day when it finally hits the point of needing to be voiced, in the very same café that Yusuf had first approached him in, as the waiter.

Much like with their change from delightfully romantic but slightly _boring_ sex to- Nicolò shifts in his seat and fights a blush at the shivers that climb his spine- the delights they indulge in now; he feels he might have to be the one to push them into their next stage of life together. Yusuf is remarkably willing to take the lead in bed but not so much in the day to day. Perhaps he thinks Nicolò is still going to be unsure or perhaps he still wants Nicolò to make each decision by himself, but Nicolò suspects that he genuinely just does not know that Nicolò is getting itchy feet.

And it's only worse that Yusuf himself seems so damn content with their lazy lifestyle so far.

"Mm, are you happy my love?" Nicolò asks casually, stretching his legs out beneath the table. Yusuf looks over at him with his molten-flame smile. Nicolò feels the warmth on the side of his face like he's sitting next to an open fire.

Evidently Yusuf thinks the way he smiles while sipping his coffee is enough of an answer for that and he looks so peaceful and sweet that Nicolò leaves it there and chooses to enjoy the moment.

He tries again the next night. Well- the sun is starting to rise, so really it is the next _morning_. His entire body aches in the best of ways and the base of his spine is liquid, legs too shaky to even lift. Yusuf- dear perfect, gorgeous, _monstrous_ Yusuf- is carefully massaging him back to reality via his thighs, to head off the worst of the aches tomorrow. "That was…"

"Oh it was, was it?"

"Always. Sometimes I think I was built by your hands. You know so well how to take me apart."

Yusuf presses his pleased smile down into Nicolò's hip. "I have had plenty of time to imagine every possible way to touch you in theory, and all that remains is to apply it to reality. I find that reality is beyond what I could have imagined however, and provides significantly more feedback. You give me such wonderful reactions my Nicolò."

"Well you give me wonderful… cock?"

His clumsy reply is worth it for the laughter it evokes. It also draws Yusuf up, body blanketing Nicolò's back and bending down to drop kisses like soft raindrops over Nicolò's shoulders. "Your body speaks poetry enough for me. And it truly sings when you are in my arms. Who needs words?"

"Y-es," Nicolò agrees, but he hesitates. It is obvious enough that Yusuf slips off to the side and props his head up on his elbow to look at him, hand sliding down Nicolò's arm, linking their fingers together and bringing his hand up to kiss.

"But I am sensing that words might be more useful here. There is something you want to say. Am I right?"

"Yes," Nicolò says again, equally slowly. Where does he start? Yusuf always knows what to say and how to put his heart into words. Nicolò… does not.

"Would it help if I guessed?" his thief offers, generous as ever. "I can suggest what it might be and you can-"

"No- no. That would... I do not want to hear the things you might guess. I do not want to make you imagine anything worse than the truth."

"And now you are starting to scare me, love," Yusuf says with a nervous laugh, squeezing Nicolò's fingers subtly tighter. "Will you try then, and soothe my fears?"

"Do you remember… when you first arrived?"

He watches Yusuf's eyes go distant while he thinks back. "I do. I assume you mean the first time we-"

"Yes, that," Nicolò interrupts swiftly, trying not to let them get lost in distracting memories. "Do you also remember then, that I loved how we were very much? But that… it was not everything that I wanted?"

There is a beat of quiet broken by the distant sound of waking gulls. Then Yusuf sits up fully, looking down at him in worry. "Nicolò I- I'll be honest, I don't know if there is anything more I would be willing to do to you in our bed. Beyond the limits we have reached are only things that… I cannot enjoy. I am sorry if it does not satisfy, truly-"

"Oh no, _no_! Blessed, sweet man. That is not what I mean at all."

"Oh. Then what?"

"I'm bored, Yusuf!" Nicolò blurts out. "Not with you, and not with anything you so enthusiastically and thoroughly do to me. But with my _life_. I miss… I miss my work, in a way, but I think more that I miss the excitement of chasing you. Of having a job and a project and knowing that the satisfaction of completing it will be enough to carry me through to the next one. I am not a man made for all this… languishing around."

Yusuf blinks at him. Nicolò knows many of the flickers of expression that cross that face now, as intimately as he knows his own. There are still more to learn- and that thought constantly thrills him- but the one that spreads now is familiar. Soft understanding; and a hint of fond, frustrated amusement.

"You are a fiend for scaring me, but I thank you for sharing what you feel," Yusuf begins. "And I confess-" his smile turns sheepish and he attempts to hide his mouth behind Nicolò's hand, newly stolen back into his own "- that I have been feeling much the same way."

"You have?!"

"Yes! I love this, truly-"

"As do I! It has been exquisite."

"Yes, yes but not _everything_."

"No, not _everything_."

"Dare I say it, Nicolò; but there is more to life than being in bed with you and I miss it too."

Nicolò grins at him, still as yet unable to move very much. But he can stretch his fingertips to touch Yusuf's cheek and brush through his beard. "So what shall we do? Oh, I cannot say how glad I am that you feel the same way."

"Nor I," Yusuf promises him. "I think this is, however, a conversation best kept until morning."

"It is morni- Yusuf!" Nicolò yelps, laughing and flinching away from Yusuf's chiding, pinching fingers that come to reprimand him for the cheek. "Alright, very well. Until we next awake. We will talk of the future."

"I have some ideas I would like to propose, in the light of day. When you are able to discuss them properly."

"Are you suggesting I am unable?"

"I am _saying_ that you were barely able to remember your own name not half an hour past."  
  
"I remembered _yours_..."  
  
Yusuf laughs. "Rest my Nicolò. And when you wake we will prepare for the next part of our lives."

He pulls the cheap sheets up around them and presses close. His own skin feels like silk in comparison and Nicolò hums in sweet contentment.

"Goodnight. Dream of me."

"Every waking moment with you is a dream; the hours I sleep are a pale comparison, keeping us parted."

"Flatterer. I love you."

"And I love you."

They leave two days later. Yusuf leads them to a ship, bound for Genoa, on which they share a cabin and explore all the wonderful excitements of having to stay quiet while trying to make each other see stars. It is shockingly Nicolò that wins that particular competition. Yusuf is normally the consummate director of their lovemaking but on the third night Nicolò manages a sweet twist of his hips while Yusuf rides him down into the bunk and his thief chokes on a high, thready noise. Nicolò grins widely but has to quickly clamp a hand over his own mouth when Yusuf doubles down in retaliation, his delicious strong thighs flexing taut as he moves hard and fast until Nicolò’s eyes nearly cross from pleasure. 

The journey ends and Italy awaits them on the other side of the Mediterranean, slightly grey with the onset of late Autumn but bright with people and busy with trade. Yusuf follows Nicolò through the streets of his old hometown, learning the shape of his history as he has been learning Yusuf's but not lingering long. Nicolò has closed the chapter of his life here and it is really only to indulge Yusuf's fancies that he'd agreed to land here at all. They move on to Venice- which Nicolò is far more eager to visit- by the time the leaves are turning from orange to dry and papery and falling from the trees. He takes it upon himself to arrange their accommodations- choosing the very same hotel Nicolò had stayed in previously; with the same roof (and roof railing) for them to enjoy each other on.

It is while they stay there that his thief takes on the first job he has worked since before he had come to Birgu. With a soft kiss goodbye each time, Yusuf vanishes for several lonely nights in a row, leaving Nicolò behind to keep himself occupied. He knows where Yusuf is going of course, and what he is up to- it is just that they both want to be careful not to push Nicolò into his awaiting life of crime before he is truly prepared.

Nicolò understands and values the time he has been given, truly he does- and he had even expected to need it- but he only feels miserable when Yusuf is gone, sleeping terribly and wondering where he is; what he is doing; how much danger he might be in. The job, all told, takes almost a week before finally, _finally_ Yusuf is returning triumphantly home to him late one night, waking Nicolò to celebrate in style.

“Did you get it?” Nicolò eventually asks, only half of his voice escaping from under the hand carefully reducing his capacity for breath. Yusuf purrs against his back, a low, rumbling hum that Nicolò feels travel down his spine. 

“Of course I did. Safe and sound; ready to be collected by my friends at the end of the week when we are long gone.” He sucks a bruise into Nicolò’s neck, too high to be hidden away in the morning, and digs his artful fingers into Nicolò's hips, jolting him forwards diagonally across the bed with every fast, victorious thrust until they’re both thrumming with wild energy and can’t hold on any longer. Nicolò drops his shoulders low and Yusuf rises high above him and they fall together, sharing in Yusuf's triumph, voices a twin symphony to his success. 

When Yusuf unties his wrists from the corner post of the bed Nicolò turns to catch him in a deep kiss, drawing him down onto the sheets until they’re panting and moving against each other all over again, even though there's no chance of either of them getting hard again so soon. “Next one."

"Hm?"

"On the next one I will join you,” Nicolò tells him breathlessly. 

“Already?”

“Already. The way it felt to have you apart from me. The way you _look_ right now, my love... How could I take any longer to be sure?"

Yusuf pulls Nicolò up from the bed with a joyous shout, dancing him around their room with happy words of poetry tumbling from his lips, accompanied by Nicolò’s laughter. “I had hoped you would choose thus! You came to me so much quicker than I'd thought to hope for in other ways that I wondered... And I knew you would, eventually, but I wanted you at my side the very moment I left. I am ablaze with possibility; I cannot wait! It will be an _honour_ to steal by your side, my Nicolò. I have a feeling you will be quite wonderful at it.”

“What makes you say that?” Nicolò asks, tilting his head with a smile. He is happy to fish for compliments; Yusuf is even happier to take the bait every time. They come to a natural stop in the centre of the room and gaze at each other in the faint light from the window, pressing close to fight the chill of the cold venetian winter's night.

“Because you have been stealing from me since first we met. My breath; then my gaze; then my every waking thought and lastly my heart.”

“I think you gave them all quite willingly. Very little needed to be stolen.”

“Ah, very well I cannot deny it. I was yours from the start. _You_ however, my most precious treasure, took a little longer.”

Nicolò shakes his head. “It was only ever my mind that needed time and you knew just how to guide it to you, forging beacons for me to follow. But I have never doubted that you were my life to be, only in what manner that might be.”

“Dear heavens Nicolò; sometimes I am not sure it is I who is the poet between us. Perhaps you are my equal in all things- no, you _are_ my equal in all things. My Nicolò; my avid pursuer and greatest foe and dearest love.”

“I think we should hope I am equal to you in the work that employs the famous al-Tayyib first, before you get ahead of yourself there, my love.”

His thief hums, brushing their noses together, and kisses him again. “Very well. And now to bed. We have much to do, many things to plan, and a long day ahead of us.”

“Many long days.”

“All the days to come that remain to us.” 

“Together?” Nicolò whispers, feeling his heartbeat thundering in his chest, singing out from behind his ribs with Yusuf’s where it presses right back. 

Yusuf breathes the words into both of their lungs as he kisses him sweetly. “ _Together_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has read and kudosed and especially commented! This was written for my wild and wonderful merfam out there in the multimerse, but I'm delighted to have brought it across to AO3 (with a bit of deft editing!!). 
> 
> I'm currently planning a miniseries of enemies-to-lovers oneshots so keep an eye out for that if you're interested in more of this <3


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